


A Marvelous, Magnificent, Lovable Man

by bcathryn



Category: Historical RPF, Lewis and Clark
Genre: Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 22:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bcathryn/pseuds/bcathryn
Summary: Prior to the expedition, Lewis suffers a severe depressive episode and fears what the other men will think of him should he become depressed as their Captain. Jefferson reminds him of the faith he has in Lewis and Clark's friendship.





	A Marvelous, Magnificent, Lovable Man

Lewis could not fall asleep at night despite how tired he felt during the day. All day long. Every day for the past five days.  
This was it.  
What Jefferson referred to as “sensible depressions of the mind” among his colleagues and companions, including Lewis himself.  
Lewis appreciated Jefferson- a gentleman with whom he could share his troubles, cry in front of… And while he felt the same way about William Clark- a few months away from being Lewis’s co-captain on their journey West- these “sensible depressions” left him full of doubt and low on trust.  
For the past five days, he had spent the mornings and afternoons perched upon the windowsill in his bedroom; evenings and nights he spend in bed, tangled in the covers, eyes wide open despite only a dark emptiness on his mind.  
He did not want to read or spend time with nature or wander around the lawn and gardens. He did not want to think or talk to anyone. Instead, his mind would talk to itself. Remind him of how pitiful and worthless he was, what an unattractive and pathetic virgin he was, how no one loved him. He could not even love himself. He hated himself. He hated his lean build, his mousy brown hair and pale eyes, his long nose and narrow, bowed lips. Those were ugly. He was ugly. Life was a bore to him; he had no passions.

He awoke on the sixth next morning with a gnawing pain in his lower abdomen. So painful he became queasy. He drew his knees to his chest and embraced them, as if this position would help the pain or at least bring him some comfort.  
There was a light rapping on the door.  
“Mr. Lewis?”  
Without waiting for a reply, a frantic Jefferson entered. “Mr. Lewis! You look terrible.” He traipsed closer to Lewis’s bedside and laid the back of his hand on the secretary’s forehead. “You’re feeling a bit warm. Do you feel feverish?”  
“Not particularly. Mr. Jefferson, I’m hurting.”  
“Where?”  
Lewis lifted the covers and pointed at his belly, just below his hips. Jefferson lightly pressed the area.  
“It feels bloated. When was the last time you moved a bowel?”  
Lewis shrugged and shook his head. “It has been a few days.”  
“Days!” Jefferson motioned to the chamber pot in the dim corner. “Try to go as soon as you rise from bed. I’ll leave you to your privacy now.” He made his way back to the hall. “If you think you’re too blocked, we’ll call for a doctor.”  
Jefferson was the only person- outside of his family- who knew about these episodes. Why was he so frenetic now? Was it because Lewis had turned down every meal and drink offered to him the past week? Because he had been more isolated and gloomy than usual?

Once Jefferson had left, Lewis made himself rise from the bed and retrieved the porcelain pot from its dusty corner. He hitched up his nightshirt- the only article of clothing he had worn for the past week- and squatted. Nothing came but more pain. He strained and pushed and succeeded only in forcing the ache to spread lower, from the front of his pelvis to his backside.  
What was it his mother had always given him for this? Dandelion? Taraxacum officinale.  
He waited for a few more minutes. He strained until little spots and sparks danced before his eyes. It would not have surprised him if his rectum had begun to bleed. Then he rose and climbed back into bed.  
This was his fault, he decided, for not eating or drinking (even his throat was sore from dryness) or using the privy for however long… 

He was hurting physically, yes, but in a way, this hurt settled his mind. He could expect this kind of hurting. He knew when it would begin and could predict when it would end. He could do something- take an herb or bathe or dress a wound or rest- to relieve it.  
It was nothing like the hurt that ravaged his mind and heart, the hurt that he could not describe by pointing at a body part, the hurt that woke and fell asleep with him on random days and nights. The hurt that somehow, was so intense that it made him beg silently for death.  
Why did he want to die on these days? Was it because he felt useless and burdensome to himself and to others, or because only separation from his body would bring the suffering to a permanent end? 

He welcomed any sensation- even physical pain- that would distract him from these frightening moods. Even if he had to bring these sensations on himself. He had discovered this years ago, as a boy. During the long Virginia winters of his younger teenage years, to be exact. The cold winter mornings when he would trawl through the ice and snow barefoot until his feet cracked and bled profusely. He would leave a trail of scarlet behind him from the woods and crawl on his hands and knees once he reached home so that his uncle would not fuss at him for tracking blood on the floor. He would dab the blood as well as he could with an old cloth he kept hidden under his bed and soak his feet in a basin of warm water, under the guise of relieving his frostbitten toes. The pain, the bleeding, the panic of making it indoors to his bedroom without leaving crimson footprints on the rug: he recalled those sensations as pleasant. Pleasant, in contrast to whatever it was that frequently haunted his mind.

What was making him so damned sad all of the time?  
Was it the loss of his father? He vaguely remembered a tall, sinewy man who towered over his petite mother, with dark hair and ice-gray eyes… was this the man? Why would he feel so sad because of a man he could barely recall? Was it because this man, nearly thirty years ago, had planted the seed that gave rise to him? Was it because this was the first man whom his mother had loved as a young woman?  
As a boy, he liked to hear the same story, over and over, from his mother:

"The night before you arrived, I sat with your father on the veranda, and we held hands, and I could feel you moving about inside of me. I knew from all of the times I found myself relaxing outdoors despite my condition that you wanted to be with nature even when you were still growing in me, wanting to come out and see the world and all of the greenery…  
You arrived the next day as the sun was setting, the sky pink and the trees black. You cried and cried and I held you to my chest until you fell asleep. Jane climbed upon the bed and sat beside us; she was very eager to meet her new little brother, and she begged me to let her hold you but she was too little to do so by herself. I let her touch your face and hands, and then your father set her in his lap and kissed you and me both. He held you next and looked at you proudly- I had only seen him smile like that twice before, when we got married and when Jane was born. “He is very handsome,” your father said, and he agreed that Meriwether was the perfect name for you, that it was a magnificent name for one who would surely become a magnificent man…"

Was it his mother? Who, in contrast to his father, was still well and living? When the Lewis siblings had been sent across the state to live with their uncle and continue their schooling, Meriwether would cry into his pillow every night for the first month, for he missed his mother dreadfully. He missed sitting on her lap or (when he got bigger) beside her, sharing a book on plants, letting her ruffle his maple-brown hair…

“Mr. Lewis?”  
“Come in.”  
Jefferson opened the door but remained in the hallway. “Have you managed to… relieve yourself?”  
“No, I haven’t.”  
“I’ll fetch the doctor, then.”  
“There is no need. I’ll be fine.”  
“No, you need to see the doctor.”  
Lewis sat up and straightened out his shirt. “Let’s go for a walk. That will take care of me.”  
“We can go outside this evening. Stay in bed for now, and I’ll go fetch the doctor.” Without another word, Jefferson turned and left, and Lewis crawled back under the covers.

“Just a touch of immobility,” the doctor explained, after talking to the two men and pressing his hands into Lewis’s abdomen. He instructed Lewis to swallow a few spoonfuls of a thick, pale yellow liquid, and- with a teasing smile- to remain close to a privy or chamber pot afterwards. Drink plenty of water as well, he instructed, and he left the gentlemen alone in the bedroom.  
Jefferson left for a moment and returned with a heavy silver pitcher of water. Lewis could not help but force down several gulps to wash down his first dose of the foul-tasting oil. After an hour, he was finally able to relieve himself, and he spent the rest of the afternoon in the privy.

Was it the battlefield? Was it seeing men shot, dying, in agony…? No- it could not have been. He had been sad long before then.  
There was, however, the fear. The fear that his fellow men- including Clark- would discover his moods and see him as something other than a man, let alone a human worthy of respect. He had to trudge along on those days, power through them. Tough them out.  
But even the discipline and stoicism he had developed in his position, he thought anxiously, would one day crumble and reveal to scores of men- some higher, some lower than he- the sad and moody and cowardly and emotional child he truly was.  
As if the depressed moods themselves were not troubling enough, there was always the anxiety and terror that came about with it, for at least one reason or another.

He cleaned himself and returned to his room, where he forced himself into appropriate clothing. He then made his way to Jefferson’s office, where he found the President combing eagerly through a new seed catalog.  
“Feeling better, Mr. Lewis?” Jefferson asked, smiling.  
“The medicine worked.”  
“Excellent. Come over and have a look at this.”  
Lewis stood over Jefferson and glanced at the pages before him on the desk. Leaves and berries and seeds and shrubs, ornamentals, white and pink and red flowers, crops, little trees that boasted plump pears and apples and plums in the summer… Lewis was not interested. He kept silent.  
“I’m thinking of these roses for Monticello,” Jefferson said, “and I know that Martha and Mary would be thrilled to help me plant some young trees. Mary needs to get outdoors more, after tending to the baby…” He paused and glanced up at Lewis. “Are you still unwell? You’re much more quiet than usual. Usually you’re thrilled and chatty when you see the new catalogs.” He gestured at the empty seat on the opposite side of his desk. “Why don’t you take a seat?”  
Lewis simply shook his head. He felt the corners of his mouth tremble and sink downward.  
“Let’s take our walk, then,” Jefferson suggested, closing the catalog and rising from his seat. “You do need to go outside after having been cooped up in your room.”  
Reluctantly, Lewis followed Jefferson down the long hallway and outside to the yard. This excursion alone almost left Lewis out of breath; his legs were shaky and his feet felt sore. 

The two strolled along the stone path in silence, Jefferson strutting with his hands folded behind his back, Lewis limping slightly and staring at the ground.  
“What’s on your mind, Meriwether?”  
At his first name, Lewis felt his neck flush.  
“I’m concerned about you.” Jefferson stopped and placed a hand on his secretary’s lean shoulder. “You’ve been especially down lately.”  
Lewis began to stammer. “It-it’s the ex-expedition…” Lewis could barely manage the last word before erupting into tears. Heavy sobs, his throat tightening.  
He felt Jefferson’s embrace. “Oh, Meriwether. Let’s sit down.”  
The two found a stone bench beside one of Jefferson’s favorite trees on the back lawn. Jefferson offered Lewis a handkerchief and allowed him space to calm himself down.  
“Tell me whatever you’d like,” Jefferson said, laying his hand on top of Lewis’s.  
“W-what if I-I get l-like this on the t-trip?” Lewis stuttered, sniffling. “I-I d-don’t deserve to g-go if I get like this.”  
“That is not true, Meriwether.”  
Lewis shook his head in staunch disagreement. “What makes me like this, Mr. Jefferson?”  
Jefferson sighed and answered, “I cannot answer that, Meriwether. I’ve known your father’s family for years and…” He paused to take Lewis’s hand. “Many of them suffered these depressive moods, just like yours. If only you had known them like I did.” Jefferson frowned, and Lewis dabbed at his sad smoky-gray eyes with the corner of the handkerchief. “It is not because of something you did wrong or something that went wrong, Lewis. Just as you have the Lewis eyes and build, you also have the family’s propensity for sadness.”  
“I don’t remember my father well.”  
“He was a wonderful man,” Jefferson replied, smiling proudly. “He would have been proud…” Jefferson stopped to avoid discussing the deceased gentleman further. “But know that you are not the only one in this world who feels down.”  
“Do you ever have these moods, Mr. Jefferson?” Is it appropriate to ask the President such questions? Lewis wondered to himself.  
“After I lost my Martha, I wanted my own life to end as well.”  
Lewis’s heart skipped a beat with surprise. I want mine to end too…  
“It was my Polly and Mary who kept me alive. And this new nation of ours, I had to live to see it bloom. And Monticello, and the wonders of our natural world.” He bent down to pick a bright dandelion flower. “A man like you will flourish out West, Meriwether. I have no concerns about you.”  
Lewis hung his head doubtfully. “What about the others?”  
“The other men, you mean?”  
“If they see me this way- they cannot follow a sad Captain, can they? And Clark, what about him?” Lewis lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to- to turn him away.” He felt his fair cheeks redden. “I don’t want him to abandon our friendship.”  
“William Clark strikes me as a very loyal and patient man,” Jefferson answered. “He remained your close friend after your military days together. Were those times not difficult for the both of you?”  
Lewis shrugged and stared at the space between his open legs. 

Would these moods end, perhaps, once he was reunited with Clark? Once he could spend every day for a few years with him?  
He was reminded of one evening they had spent together during one of Lewis’s depressive episodes- albeit a milder one, compared to this one…  
They had been chatting and laughing, a tad flushed with whiskey, Clark’s strawberry blonde hair flaming by the light of their campfire. Lewis felt his mood lift just a bit then- had it been the alcohol or the laughter or spending the night outside or- had it been the company?  
The company of a man who could make him laugh and smile and saw right through his mood, a man who was handsome and loyal?  
Lewis had wanted Clark to have him that night, to press him to the ground of their tent and enter his body, kiss his neck and cheeks and lips, whisper sweet nothings and remind him that there was someone in this world who loved him, wanted to become intimate with him, stay true to him…

He wanted Clark with him and Jefferson right then, to take his hand and patiently sit by his bedside and remind him that everything was going to be okay. That he was truly a marvelous, magnificent man. A loveable man.  
Perhaps Jefferson was right.  
He would have nothing to fear.  
He would flourish out west with Clark by his side.


End file.
